Summer Ritual

When I was growing up, our parents took us to the Boardwalk at night. I remember the excitement that consumed me as we waited for the day to pass. And as I remember it, the anticipation wasn’t overblown; the Boardwalk truly delivered.

As an adult, I found it loud and overstimulating, and riding the Giant Dipper gave me a headache. But I took vicarious pleasure from watching my daughter take the ride-induced adrenaline high to new levels, levels to which I had never aspired.

When she was nine, Carly headed for the seats at the very back of the Pirate Ship, where it rocked to a complete vertical. She held her hands up high over her head, even when the ship dropped down and terror momentarily crossed her face. Standing under the Pirate Ship, watching my daughter’s face change from surprise to fear to sheer happiness, was as much a pleasure as were the twilight evenings of my childhood, when I had walked hand in hand with my dad and my brother Timothy won me a china cat at a game booth.

Eliot’s approach to the Boardwalk was different; his required acute observation and, like most everything else he did, lots of time. He spent the summer of his seventh year carrying around a photograph of Carly and her friend Jessica on the Giant Dipper. Only because he knew he was not tall enough, he kept saying (with mischief in his eyes, because until he met the height requirement he knew we couldn’t call him on it) “I want to go on the Big Dipper.”

At seven, he rejected the kiddy rides and went straight for the Log Ride, where he strolled confidently through the line. But he yelled, “Get me out!” as soon as our log boat reached the top and plunged into the snaking trough of water high above the beach. When it was over, he parked himself safely at the bottom of the ride and laughed at each boat as it careened down the final drop.

After that he took my hand and led me to the roller coaster. Although it was a roller coaster for little people, it went fast and had plenty of dips and turns. He waited patiently in a long line. There was no pulling on my arm or devious behavior. When finally it was our turn we climbed on, and the roller coaster started its wild ride.

I was acutely aware of the air underneath us, how far we were off the ground, the dizzying effects of the turns; while riding with my son who was gravitationally insecure, I was totally empathetic. He cried out and grabbed my arm, but when the ride was over he laughed as if it was the greatest thing he’d ever done. The next year he steered clear of the Log Ride and the Little Dipper and went back to the kiddy rides.

For most of us, the Boardwalk was about sugar and adrenaline, anticipation and fulfillment. It was about riding high under a sky full of stars. But for Eliot it was about staying on the ground. Both literally and figuratively. It was about learning to wait in line, trying new things, figuring out what you liked and didn’t like. It was about learning to say No Thanks to the Log Ride, and Yes Please to the Giant Dipper where you didn’t stand a chance of being allowed on. It was about vicarious pleasure and saving face.

I had always thought Eliot stared at the picture of Jessica on the Big Dipper because he was in love with her, her deep brown eyes and her three years up on him. But that wasn’t it. Carrying that picture was his own private initiation into the world as he knew it. It was his way of figuring out where he fit in.